She forgot—she was just a car model, while Grace was born an heiress.
Not the same.
Unwilling to accept it, she started fabricating stories online.
She painted herself as a single mother abandoned by the elite, fishing for sympathy, hoping to use public opinion to force Richard.
But netizens were used to digging up Richard’s endless scandals. They were immune.
“Here we go again—another secret child of Richard Coleman. How many this year already?”
“Money-hungry much? Where’s the proof?”
“Disperse, disperse, just another get-rich-quick scam.”
Her smear campaign didn’t stir any waves—it only made her a joke.
The five million dollars was long gone, squandered away in her extravagant lifestyle.
Easy to go from frugal to lavish, impossible to go back.
Her temper grew worse, and all her rage poured down on me.
“Why weren’t you a boy!”
“You must have a cursed horoscope, blocking my way to success!”
“That night he clearly loved me! It was only after I got pregnant with you that he turned cold. You’re a jinx!”
Drunkenness and beatings became routine.
Sometimes she would hold me and cry, saying, “I only have you.”
That tiny bit of stingy affection made me believe she loved me, just… she was unhappy.
With my bruised face, I would nuzzle her hand.
“Don’t be sad, Mom. I’ll be good.”
I thought if I behaved better, she would turn back into a good mother.
So I tried harder.
Whatever she wanted, I did.
She began obsessively filming me, building a “child prodigy” persona.
She fantasized that one day Richard would see his brilliant daughter online, regret everything, and take us back.
The account “Sophia’s World” went viral.
But off-camera, what I got wasn’t candy and hugs—it was harsher demands and more frequent beatings.
And her ever-inflating, unrealistic dream of High Society.
The money went into designer bags, fancy restaurants, and her bottomless vanity.
Then, she put me up for sale.
“Can’t beat Richard? Then take his daughter.”
That’s how she advertised me, drawing in men with twisted tastes.
Most were Richard’s business rivals.
From age eight to eighteen, I lived like a dog.
If she told me to open my mouth, I opened it.
If she told me to spread my legs, I did.
All it took was her patting my head and saying, “Good girl, be obedient, I only have you.”
One day, after a phone call, her mood was the best I’d ever seen, her eyes shining with excitement.
“Sophia, stop watching the video. Today Mom’s taking you to a nice place for a feast!”
She rarely did my hair and dressed me up so carefully, making me look like a real princess.
The car stopped in front of a very secluded Private Club.
She gave a name, was verified, and we were respectfully escorted inside.
She sat me at a table in the corner, ordered quickly, then leaned close and whispered:
“Sophia, be good and eat here. Later I’ll take you to room 8808 to meet a very important man.”
“Stay here after you finish. Don’t run around. Got it?”
I nodded sweetly.
I had just taken a bite when she suddenly shot to her feet, her gaze locked on the restaurant entrance, her face erupting with manic urgency.
“He… he really came…”
Muttering to herself, she grabbed her purse and stumbled off, chasing a certain figure.
